Mary was doing her duty, thoroughly and faithfully, as she did all things. The old man had been well taken care of before she came; the little room had been neat as wax, the old rag and tatter of humanity had been kept clean and wholesome as might be; but Mrs. Bailey had no time for the little touches, the scientific generalities, so to speak, that appeared wherever Mary went. The little trays, by whose daintiness gruel was made to appear a feast for sybarites; the tidy screen, fashioned from a clotheshorse and a piece of cheesecloth; the glass of flowers on the light-stand by the bed: all these said, "Mary-in-the-kitchen," as plain as things can speak; and Mary, sad and steadfast, found satisfaction in them. But Old Man Blossom cared for none of these things; dirt was good enough for him, he said, he was made of it, anyways; let Mary stop wieldin' that duster and set down by him, she'd been bustlin' the entire mornin'; he wanted to look at her. Mary sat down patiently, and took out her tatting--but the nerveless hand groped and groped till it touched hers, and clutched and held it. Then he lay quiet, gazing his fill, asking nothing more of earth or Heaven; and Mary sat patiently, seeing her duty plain, doing it thoroughly. Loving it? No! She would not lie to herself. Her flesh would cringe and shrink at the touch of that other flesh, flaccid, lifeless, yet clinging so close it seemed to be sucking her clean young strength as a leech sucks blood. The visions would come, try as she might to banish them; visions of the old, dreadful days, of this face, now so peaceful on the pillow, purple and sodden, with glazed eyes and hanging mouth; of her mother, with the watchful terror in her eyes; mingled with these visions, inseparable from them, the smell of liquor and musty straw. Then, as she fought with herself, striving to drive away the sight and the smell, lo! all would change. She would see a dark face glowing with a warmth of tenderness and compassion which--she told herself--her cold heart could never know. "Poor old mutt!" said the voice that was like a golden bell. "He's on the blink, you see, and he wants his kid. Wouldn't that give you a pain? Honest, now!" Then Mary would bend over the bed in an agony of self-reproach. "Father, are you easier? Father, would you like a drink? Let me lift your head--so!" And through it all, something at the back of her brain knew that along the white ribbon of road a figure was striding, lithe, alert, a wheel at its back and a song on its lips. Yes, a song! All would come right, it couldn't help but. The Lord was Pippin's shepherd, e'en as He was Mary's. He would make her see, make her understand. Glory be! "Dinner's ready, Mary! Can you come?" Mrs. Bailey, opening the door softly, spoke under her breath, with a glance at the still figure in the bed, at the hand clutching Mary's with feeble, clinging grasp. Mary nodded and her lips shaped the words, "Presently! He's dropping off asleep."